


Memento Mori

by Unknown_Sociopath



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flashbacks, Multi, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown_Sociopath/pseuds/Unknown_Sociopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty was always Mycroft's favorite criminal. But in an effort to understand him and his interest in his brother, Mycroft orders torture. Moriarty's POV. Flashbacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My friend Katherine and I worked on this off and on since school started this year. I am not very used to writing 'dark' fics. I mainly stick to fluff. But I believe we did fairly well. 
> 
> Any questions? ask one of us on tumblr.  
> Me- Unknown-sociopath.tumblr.com  
> Her- Salamanderflame007.tumblr.com

     He took a deep breath as the cold edge of the blade slid across his chest. It was not yet being pushed down hard enough to hurt him, it is only intended to make him uncomfortable. 'They do not understand my history with pain at all, Jim thought, rather amused. They would have to do more than this to get a reaction out of me. Rather than look down at the fine trickle of blood seeping gently from the wound, his dead eyes found that of his torturer. He smiled slightly, taunting the mans methods of suffering. He would not speak, because he knew well that if he did so then the slightest change in his voice could reveal one of his most prized plans he held hidden. You shall not get a word out of me, my dear.

     Moriarty laughed lightly, clearly enjoying himself despite the blood that is now running through his hands. The man’s expression did not change. His uniform was recently bought judging by the condition, he had no symbolization of being in a relationship, but because his face was covered in a dark mask the consulting criminal was unable to read him clearly. But just clear enough. He was new at his job, clearly a disturbed man but not used to using such methods of torture at hand. Moriarty knew that this man would not go any further with his work unless a person of interest, this mans employer, said so otherwise. Moriarty knew exactly who that employer was- the infamous Mycroft Holmes. He had been planning this little get together for some time now.

     Mycroft had once believed he and Moriarty would become friends, even allies. That was back before Sherlock was old enough to understand the difference between right and wrong. After his brother did not approve of them, Mycroft gave up his feeble attempt to reason with his favorite, and only, Consulting Criminal. The only problem to this situation was that the infamous Moriarty would not utter a syllable to a single being. Mycroft began to imagine that he would have to use even more precautions to get into the criminal’s mind, realizing that this could be a long and dauntless night. Although it was not unusual for Mycroft to not sleep at night, Moriarty knew that his Enemies brother would fall asleep quickly tonight. He just wouldn't know about that until he drank his evening tea.

     His torturer smiled as he cut deep enough to make Moriarty flinch, but no matter what he did, he could not get him to talk. And so they stayed in the same until nightfall, trying out all the different places to cut open Moriarty, finding out how to make his eyes lose his dead look for just a quick moment. In that moment, the torturer would become scared. Moriarty could see that, but he could not figure out what he could look like while in pain to scare a man. He never got to find out. The Next day, a different person walked in to try out a new form of torture. This new person was the infamous Mycroft himself.

     Moriarty glanced up at him, determined to keep his ghostly eyes fixed on Mycroft. He had came to him in the usual elegant suit and tie, holding his classical umbrella. There was not a single weapon on the man, which slightly confused the consulting criminal, but he reminded himself that Mycroft was here to chat. For now.

     Mycroft scanned the consulting criminal, making note of the things that had been done to him. Moriarty was even more pale from blood loss, though not much had escaped him from the small cuts that had been sliced slowly against his chest. Some of the gashes had been made smaller and deeper near his stomach, but none had hit him in a vital area. Mycroft had forbidden that, at the moment.

     “I hear you would not talk to any of your associates yesterday. Would you enlighten me on why?” Mycroft asks in a neutral voice.

     Moriarty slowly lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes now locked with Mycroft Holmes, and smiled softly. It looked almost innocent, and Mycroft despised that. The consulting criminal stared intensely at him, searching for a sign of aggravation or annoyance or anything in Holmes, but there was nothing.

Mycroft leaned in closer, glaring at him intensely. “Very well, then, if I may ask, how did you become what you are today? Why are you the consulting criminal, why are you Moriarty?” he growled coldly, his eyes darkened. He really didn’t expect an answer, it was just a means to give him reason to hurt the one who favors his little brother over him, but he was surprised when Moriarty speaks.

     “Why else would I? I get BORED!”

     The only response is the sound of electricity sparking to life, straight into the contraption he was strapped onto. He blacks out.

* * *

     The shoes. He knows those won’t be a problem to get rid of, but what if somebody is smart enough to notice he is missing part of his wardrobe?

     Of course, he would deal with that when it happened.

     He could still hear him. That idiot Carl, always laughing. It never bothered him. It had always been focused on the weak, the pitiful. But Jim made a simple mistake while swimming in gym, and suddenly Carl thought Jim was no longer worth his time. They had all laughed at him. And it was Carl’s fault. He was the one who had laughed first, therefore he could not go unpunished.

     Killing him was not his first idea.

     He had thought of many ways to embarrass Carl, but none would give him the satisfaction he so desperately needed. He wanted -no, he needed- to see that stupid child suffer.

     So he did his research, and found out that carl has eczema. He applies his medication like moisturizer, always getting a little in his shoes because he is just a clumsy git. So, what would happen in that medication were poisoned? Oh, he died while swimming and everyone assumes it was accidental. It was simple really, he was almost as oblivious as he was large. Everything went according to plan.

     Then Sherlock was there, trying to convince the police that it wasn’t an accident. All because he was the only one who noticed the shoes. The missing shoes, that Jim so easily got rid of. And despite Sherlock, nobody ever looked into it.

     Jim watched Sherlock walk away, knowing that he would have a big part of his life someday. He was already making the plans.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he could feel was the cold. It bit at him like a snake going in for the kill. And all he could think of was a time when he was younger, cold much like he is now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Katherine's work. She is very proud of this chapter. 
> 
> Wanna tell her how you feel about it?  
> salamanderflame007.tumblr.com

When he opened his eyes, he was in pitch black darkness and was terribly cold. He was still sitting uncomfortably in the metal chair, his wrists still held down by the straps and the wires still wrapped around his head like a python. His vision was blurred slightly as he craned his neck to get a better look around, then remembered quickly that he was being held hostage to be interrogated. Moriarty closed his tired eyes again slowly, remembering that he was on camera. If they saw that he was awake, they would certainly come by for another ‘chat’. The wounds from before still stung and were agonizingly sore, but he could cope with that.

It was the bitter cold that he despised. It was no intentional method of torture, but it was efficient enough. It burned him worse than fire, his skin left feeling like ice about to break with no way of warmth. The memories the frigid chill brought back were some of his most shuddersome and triumphant.

* * *

He was seventeen when it happened, nearly ready to escape the curse of childhood. By then he was fairly acclaimed throughout the school, mostly feared but also hated. He was silent most of the time, but there were whispers of what he was. He was smart and would do plenty of things for a price, and not a single person there seemed to believe that he would not kill if tempted, but still he remained silent for his safety. If the whispers became too loud, he would silence them for a while. He did not wish for too many to know about his ways. James would not intentionally hurt others for pain unless he had a foolproof method of execution to use in order to make certain that he would not be caught.

One day the dullness of his activities was too much. He wanted to do something bigger, something better. Not like with little Carl, but rather more of a torcherous idea. Something involving a new type of fear. He wanted to twist someone.

Exactly twenty-seven days from then, Matthew Hendrich shoved him down rudely in the hall and then later that week had stolen a pen from him. He was slightly older than Jim, lean and tall with goldenrod hair. He was once a member of the rugby team but only for two years as he did not exactly meet standards in class. Hendrich was slightly well known amongst the students. Not as certainly adored like some friends of his, but he was acknowledged enough. Unlike Hendrich’s intolerable friends, this man barely glanced towards Jim, but Jim had been watching him for some time now. It did not take long for him to pinpoint the locations Hendrich visited, how much he illegally drank during the weekends, how dull his life was to him, and what he feared from happening to share a single class with him. Hendrich feared snakes, giving Moriarty some intriguing ideas.

He spent nearly an entire day outside waiting to catch several grass snakes whilst plotting to not spook but scar this annoying twit. He wasn’t just going to place it in Hendrich’s bag, he needed to place it somewhere precious to him so that he would no longer be able to go near said area. He would have frightful trust issues and paranoia after this experience.

At the end of the day, he had managed to collect three- a small one that fit in the palm of his hand, one slightly bigger, and another frightfully large. They were the annoying little buggers to catch, but by remaining calm and setting a clever trap he had managed to do so.

He calculated the correct address, which was a small red bricked home four kilometers from the school, and plotted where each would be placed. His ideas of placement would require him to break in and enter Hendrich’s home, but he had already plotted when and how to do so. After listening in to one of his thunderous conversations, Jim had learnt that his family would be out of town saturday and so Hendrich was planning a social gathering with plenty of acquaintances of his. Hendrich was going out with some friends beforehand, so Jim had plenty of time to execute his first mission and break into the house from the back. He had been well equipt to get inside, but the git had left the back door unlocked and so he breezed his way inside.

He took out the three containers from his bag and spilled the first, the smallest, in the shower. He made sure the seal was unplugged before releasing it, so it would look like it somehow slithered up the drain. What was perfect was that taking a shower would be the first thing Hendrich would do before a party. With the second, he placed it in his dresser. If this idiot didn’t attempt to dress himself today then he probably would not all weekend, which meant the coming monday he would find a starved creature perhaps dead from lack of oxygen in his pants drawer.

With the third, Jim’s favourite since it was metallic black and looked like a viper, he spent a good time looking for the perfect place to set it. He was afraid of placing it under the sheets of his bed in case it slithered off, but did so anyway. 

Hendrich would be destroyed. He would not be able to shower. He would not be able to look at pants the same. He would not be able to sleep.

He would break.

Unfortunately, Moriarty would be unable to see the reaction. He had to wait alone in his own forsaken house, smiling to himself as he thought about the screams Hendrich would make in front of the people he so desperately wanted to impress.  


But his pleasure did not last. 

Those bastards had managed to get a guess a lucky guess that it was Moriarty’s doing. The so called friends of Hendrich finally had a good reason to hurt him, as they had been wishing all along. They cornered him Monday when he was walking home at four two kilometers from the school behind a store. It had just started to snow when the grabbed him. They shouted mindless things and threw him to the ground. He would have fought back if he wasn't outnumbered by four. They beat him senseless, busting his lip and bruising his face and arms and nearly snapping his leg, continuing to taunt and beat for ages until he couldn't move or speak. They left him bleeding and broken in the snow without actual proof that he had done anything, laughing and saying words of encouragement to each other as they left. He lied there in despicable pain for a few hours, letting the thick and heavy snow continue to wash away the blood on him in the darkness. They had stripped him off his coat and tore his shirt nearly off. He would have frozen to death if that gentleman, a banker judging by his style, came across him. 

The man leaned over him, looking with more curiosity than sympathy. Moriarty stared up at him motionlessly with his dead eyes, so the man bent down and gently shook his collar to try and wake him if he was unconscious. It was that moment that Jim had made a terrible mistake and grabbed the bankers arm, feeling every ounce of hate inside him suddenly boil and explode. His head spinned and his vision blurred, and in his mind he could only see the taunting faces of his enemies. He lashed out and clawed, fighting back this time with his mind lost. He didn’t know exactly how long it was until he blacked out or woke up, and he could barely remember what happened until it was explained to him when he came.  


When Moriarty next opened his eyes, he was strapped down in a children’s mental hospital. He remained there for eighty-three days, counting. It was a few years before he obtained his revenge one the one who had destroyed him.


End file.
